


Situation Normal

by DarkShadeless



Series: Definitely not OSHA compliant [4]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Dubious Consentacles, Dubious Morality, Dubious... everything, I can't believe that is a tag, Other, XD, imposters being imposters, no actually i can, now where their favorite crew mate CAN see them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28772427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Relationships: Somminick Timmns/Male Sith Warrior
Series: Definitely not OSHA compliant [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103309
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	Situation Normal

“He was the imposter. Right?” Sar lingers on the question. His carefully nonchalant tone says ‘ _And we all knew it. Couldn’t have been anyone else._ ’

Shan and Timmns are staring at him. At the very least their helmets are angled his way. Both their visors have gone completely opaque, which shouldn’t be fucking possible, you know, unless your goddamned suit isn’t actually a suit. The tech they’ve been sent out with isn’t that good.

And there’s the little thing with Timmns _stomach_ and how it’s torn open like a bag of chips. Only instead of spilling his guts everywhere he’s drooling. From the maw where his navel should be. Sar very carefully does not take a too close look at that.

Yeah. They all know Harkun wasn’t the imposter.

Idly, Sar puts the blaster down on the table, gives it a slow spin. “ _Right?_ ” He says, again, with a bit more force.

This is the bit where they kill him. Maybe. Probably. The calculation fits the bill. It would’ve been fine if they had voted Harkun out the airlock. Everyone could have gone on pretending to be good little peons, a bit hopeless at tasks they should be able to do with their hands tied behind their back but who’s counting. Sar is really, _really_ good at looking the other way when he wants to be.

That’s not how it went though, is it?

Slowly, very slowly the sharp-angled bits hanging out of Timmns belly retreat. The tear closes up like a badly stitched patch. It doesn’t disappear completely. Sar is almost grateful for that. Less of a chance to convince himself his mind is playing tricks on him. Human brains are funny like that.

He knew but he didn’t _know_ know, you know. Seeing is a different form of believing.

It’s still Somminick. Probably. Depends. How much of the guy he has worked with was a farce? He was too bad at pretending to be a complete fake… right? And then there is Theron.

If that’s even his real name.

Sar _likes_ Theron. He’s easy to like. Easy going yet dedicated, always up for a chat. Personable. He grows on you. Sar risks letting his eyes wander away from Timmns, who is kind of passably pretending to be human again, to the man in the red suit. He was pretty sure Theron liked him, too. How much of _that_ was a lie?

Dead. Silence.

It’s going to be like that, is it?

Sar drags in a breath through his teeth and lets it go slowly. Then he lifts his hand off the blaster.

No one moves. Timmns isn’t breathing again. One of these days Sar really should tell him that’s a dead give-away.

At the other end of the table Harkun is starting to leave a puddle. Great.

Three weeks of non-stop paranoia. Colleagues that already wanted him dead freaking out left and right and trying to pin murders on each other, or _him_ , that they might or might not have committed themselves. Three weeks of picking up the slack of a whole crew of useless idiots.

He is so. Fucking. Tired. When neither of his last remaining co-workers tries to tear his head off, Sar heaves himself out of his chair.

At the very least this should have been his last emergency meeting. How nice. “Clean that up, will you? I need to get back to work.”

This ship won’t fly itself.

* * *

Sar works his way down his To-Do list from most to least important. That means the reactor reset comes first, so it doesn’t blow them to hell and gone when the timer runs out. He fuels the engines up, checks the alignment and moves on. Electrical is in tip top shape, for once.

Which reminds him: when he finds out which of these two geniuses kept shoving gum into the breaker fuses he’s going to skin them.

If he lives that long.

Storage is full of shadows and more unsettling than usual. Sar skips that bit. Communications too. Nobody to communicate with… and nothing to tell ‘em. He has made his choice hasn’t he? He’s just… waiting for how that will turn out.

The shields need a bit of recalibration but not much. Their course is fine too. Nothing but wide open space, as far as the scanners can see. Nobody out there. Just them.

Sar swallows the flutter of nerves that rises again with that thought and squashes it ruthlessly. No point. No point being afraid now.

He’s tinkering with the valves in Oxy when he feels an all too familiar prickle on the back of his neck. Timmns has such a terrible habit of staring. Sar takes a breath that only shudders a little. “So, now that we’re alone here,” so very, very alone, “are you gonna tell me where the heavy duty couplings ended up or what?”

That was the first system that broke. Life support, of all things, and when it did Sar had to fix the whole rig with the equivalent of duct tape and a prayer. The only couplings they could turn up in storage weren’t meant for this kind of use.

That was when they had decided, unanimously, to keep the suits on at all times. They won’t withstand hard vacuum but if the air scrubbers go on strike for a bit the filters will tide you over. You won’t choke right away.

Not the most auspicious start to a mission. They should’ve taken the hint.

After a long pause, during which Sar categorically refuses to look up from his work, a box is pushed into his line of view like a peace offering. It’s full of shiny, shiny couplings. Factory fresh. Look at that.

At least they didn’t flush them down the waste disposal.

Mechanically, Sar starts stripping the crap he rigged into the system and replaces it with actual parts. It’s a distraction, at least. “Why life support?” He finds himself asking, to fill the silence. “Seems like a ballsy choice.”

“We don’t require the same excess of oxygen your species does.” Timmns says evenly. Matter of fact, as if they’re discussing the weather.

Huh. Must be handy, not needing to breathe. Absently, Sar tightens a connector. “If you don’t need air, would have space even killed you?” Funny, how they hadn’t questioned that. It seemed like the logical conclusion. Whatever was hunting them, spacing it would do it in. Nothing can survive out there… right?

Timmns hum is inconclusive at best. “Depressurization is usually fatal.” _Usually_ , he says. Sar is going to scream. “And our bodies don’t retain heat well.”

So they’d freeze to death instead. Good to know. For _what_ Sar isn’t sure but it gives him a certain vindication. “Inconvenient,” is what he says. It sounds more petty than anything else.

“Is this really what you wish to talk about?” His task-partner asks after a while, as mild as milk.

Damn him and this entire mess. Sar does his best to ignore him, down to the awkward impression of something huge and hungry breathing down his neck, and keeps fiddling with the life support until even Timmns has to catch on he’s long done. There’s only so much busy work you can do on one rig.

Sar has time to think ‘ _At least I got it fixed_.’ in all its nonsensical glory and then Timmns is on him. He shoves him against one of the tanks, hand on his throat and fuck, was he always this strong? Sar figured he didn’t hold back much, he was so terrible at masquerading, but maybe Timmns was better than he thought.

Long, deceptively soft appendages wrap around his middle like steel bands. He should fight, he _does_ , but he’s so outclassed it’s barely worth calling a struggle. In seconds, Somminik has him pinned like a butterfly. Once he does, his helmet melts into his suit like something out of a Sci-Fi movie. “Take it off.”  
“What?” Sar chokes out, past the pounding of his heart.

“Your helmet.” Timmns doesn’t even look winded, calm as ever. His eyes have gone pitch black. Are they even his eyes? They bore into Sar’s either way. “You don’t need it anymore, right? Take it off.”

Right. And what if he _doesn’t_? Sar isn’t inclined to find out. He only has this one suit. Haltingly, he reaches up and triggers the locks with faintly shaking fingers. Pulling it off feels alien. He has worn it so long, even slept in it at times. It feels like a second skin, a shell, safe. And then it’s gone, rolling over the floor where it has fallen from his grip.

Somminick touches his fingers to his cheek and draws them over the curve of his jaw. He leaves a line of heat on Sar’s skin that raises goosebumps on his arms. How long has it been since someone touched him without an air tight suit in the way? He can't remember. "I hear human skin is very sensitive. Is that true?” He cups Sar's cheek. It could be called gentle if his disguise wasn't coming apart at the seams. Green is crawling up his neck, tinting his dark skin the same color as his suit. His fingers _writhe_ against Sar's skin. He's still smiling that fake, fake smile that makes Sar want to kick him in the shin.

The only thing he can read off Timmns' not-face is a shadow of curiosity. Fuck.

 _Something_ creeps over his stomach up to his chest. It tugs at the fastenings of his suit. "Why?" Sar grind out. His heart is beating so fast it's making him dizzy. "Wanna know if I'll feel it when you bite me?"

Even now the thought 'I should've lost him down a garbage chute when I had the chance' won’t quite come and he could kick his own ass for that. He's such an _idiot_.

Timmns hums the faintest note of interest. It vibrates through his fake clothing like a cat's purr.

 _Shit_.


End file.
